To Rig The Deck
by HHHOOHHH
Summary: The Joker isn't finished, but Bruce Wayne thinks that Batman is. Takes place partly during TDKR. Rated M for gore, violence, and other possible mature elements.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: This is my first Batman fanfic. Please review. Thank you. **

One

If he was being honest with himself, he knew that he had never expected to win. But something about driving humanity to peaks of madness was so… satisfying. The Joker stared at his reflection in the cracked mirror, grinning at himself.

"What's next?" he asked, waiting for an answer to drop into his scheming brain. "C'mon, you've gotta have _some ideas_." Winging it had been easy while his demented mind had an ongoing list of fun experiments to test. Over the last few months, the Joker had created a collection of masterpieces. Beautiful works of art, that's what his past actions had been. Watching an entire city crumble to the whims of one makeup wearing man, either because of an inexplicable passivity or an irrational fear, was so much fun. And the Joker loved fun.

But now, with his success in driving Gotham's political hero to madness, playing mind games with an entire city, and luring the Batman into a cavern of mental and physical difficulties, his fun was over. He really did miss it. On that night, the night when the Joker lost the game, he had watched humans make the "right" decision. He had expected both of those ships to be blown to hell by morning. It was disappointing to not watch two desperate groups of people kill each other. It was disappointing, with that delicious idea of death hovering so close, to be allowed to live. He had played the game, and obviously hadn't rigged the deck well enough, and he wasn't interested in continuing to live. But no, the Batman was too good, too damn good, for the sake of just being good. Mr. Goodness would never kill a man, no matter how sinister, no matter how psychotic. So the Joker just had to hang there from a building till he accepted the fact that he wasn't going to die. And he cut himself down.

His calm smile never faltered, but his eyes were madly dashing around. They had recently started twitching, something that the Joker found amusing yet irritating. He would have to visit a doctor about it. That would be fun. For a few hours. He could give the doc a good scare, get some laughs. Maybe kill a few nurses, he wasn't sure. The Joker was never sure of anything, except that he wasn't ever sure of things.

He thought about his upcoming doctor's visit for a moment, still eyeing himself in the smudged and broken glass mirror that hung crookedly on the wall. The wall was crudely patched with wallpaper, only semi covered by the floral pattern. The Joker's current home was a shabby one room apartment, with a small kitchen, a couch that doubled as a bed, and a toilet sitting alone in a corner. It was dirty and unkempt. _Just like my soul_, he thought, laughing loudly.

Slowly lowering himself onto the couch, the Joker contemplated his possibilities. "No," he said to himself, "No… I want the Batman. No, the game isn't over… it's… it's just starting! Are you ready, Batman? Are you ready to play?" A crazed laugh erupted, thick and cruel. The Joker was far from finished, and he was now preparing his deck.

"We are gathered here today to reflect on the short but meaningful life of Rachel Dawes," the minister spoke, voice laced with a pious kind of sadness. Bruce clenched his fists. This minister didn't care, he was just reciting an empty speech written by a secretary. "She was one of many innocent people to die in the tragic events Gotham faced within the past few months. Her life was so valuable, but the forces of evil snuffed it, in its prime."

What was this? Was this a political speech or a eulogy? The billionaire's heart was aching, memories with Rachel flashing through his mind. She was so perfect, she deserved so much more than these useless words. She deserved to be alive.

"We will never forget her drive, her willpower, her sense of morality in the face of corruption," he continued, "She was a light, a beacon, someone to follow when no other leader would stand."

The other people gathered around the grave nodded, sniffling and wiping away streams of tears. Bruce stayed for another few minutes, adding so much to the minister's speech inside his heart. He didn't realized how much he had loved Rachel, how willing he was to change for her, until she suddenly wasn't there anymore. He couldn't stand right beside her grave for so long. The regret, the grief, the guilt, it would all kill him if he stayed. So he went home.

"Sir," Alfred greeted upon his arrival to his home, "I hope the service was… acceptable." Bruce grunted in reply, tossing his wet coat to the side. The rain had also added to the dreariness and sadness of the day. "I'm very sorry about Miss Dawes."

"I thought we were beyond this kind of conversation, Alfred," Bruce muttered, walking towards his bedroom.

"Your limp, sir, is very obvious. You scrunch your face in pain with every step you take," the loyal butler commented, "You'll make it worse if you don't see someone about it."

"And explain to a doctor how it happened. You explain to one person, you might as well broadcast it through the radio." Bruce winced as he lowered himself onto his bed. Alfred busied himself straightening up the room before responding.

"And how did you explain the pained limping to the funeral guests? How will you continue to explain this? Just see a doctor… please." Bruce chuckled, burying his face in the plush abundance of pillows. "I'm scheduling and appointment."

"Go ahead, but I won't be there," Bruce whispered, done with the conversation. It seemed so wrong, so unjust, to be talking about anyone or anything other than Rachel. Alfred sensed Bruce's thoughts, and left to go schedule an appointment.

"You'll be there," he whispered, "You're too good to stand someone up, even if you're paying them. You'll be there."

Bruce didn't sleep well. His body was tired from months of stress, but his mind was awake with thoughts of Rachel. Thoughts of all the horrors wrought by the Joker's recent reign of terror. Thoughts of all the innocent people he was supposed to protect, dying. And if not dying, suffering. And if not suffering, watching others suffer. His mind was awake, and torturing him. Is this what the Joker wanted?

Did that hellion want everyone in pain, everyone living in sorrow? For someone as good as Bruce, that was difficult to understand. So he laid awake, trying to dream up something, some reason for the Joker's actions. Something to justify his intentions, if not the actual actions. Because to someone as good as Bruce, it didn't cross his mind that maybe, just maybe, there was someone out there who simply hurt and killed for the _fun of it_. He wasn't naïve. He was just too good. He was so good, that sometimes it took a while for him to accept that someone else wasn't good.

Which was why, in his little one room hideout, all alone and plotting his next bout of fun, the Joker was sure that this time he would win. Because in pure fun against pure good, the one who wasn't above rigging the deck was always the one with the upper hand.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thanks to my reviewers. I'm sorry but this story isn't on the top of my list, so updates might not be overly long or frequent. I have so many ideas running through my head; I write what I'm inspired to write (leaving me with five or six stories sometimes). This story will be continued, but I want to go ahead and apologize for the inconsistency. **

Two

A gloved hand slammed into the wall. The thin plaster cracked faintly, a product of poor construction, adding to the menagerie of other rivets and blemishes.

"Eight years," the Joker spat, "And I still can't find him." A group of freshly hired henchmen glanced around disinterestedly in the corner, whilst his long-time employees cowered. They knew the danger of the man dressed as a clown. "Eight years, with you useless curs running around Gotham trying to find _one man!_"

"Sir," one young man spoke, "It's the Batman we're looking for. He's-"

"He's what, Charlie? Tell me," the Joker said, voice gentle and genuine, but motives questionable. At the other man's silence, the green haired man continued. "Is he too scary? I mean, that's understandable, he does sneak around in black."

"No, sir, it's…" The leader inclined his head, waiting. "It's that he's too good. He didn't leave a trace. Our team has been looking for three years."

"Well, now, what should we do to fix that?" Sensing that he was getting nowhere, the Joker sighed loudly. "Go get me some more knives or something, I'll find the bastard myself. I do _everything _myself."

Plopping himself down on a swivel chair, the Joker wheeled over to the computer. His eyes scanned the list of possible persons for a few minutes, and landed on one name. "Bruce Wayne… his social activities are rather odd. Disappeared for years, showed back up as a billionaire playboy, and after my little escapade, he disappears again, and Batman has yet to be seen again as well."

He clicked on an image of Gotham's richest citizen. Something about his face was familiar. The teeth. That was it, how could someone not notice when two "different" people have the exact same teeth? Shame shape, same placement, same everything. Of course the Batman would give himself away through something silly like his teeth.

"Charlie? Are you still here?" The young man stumbled into the room, holding a rather large crate (presumably full of knives). "Oh, good. I need you to help me. The Harvey Dent Memorial is coming up, and I'm afraid I can't personally make an appearance."

xxxxx

Bruce really did consider personally attending the memorial. It _was_ on his front lawn. But something held him back. He didn't want to attend a ceremony dedicated to a hero turned villain. Especially when everyone was under the impression that he had died a hero, and not the opposite. But it was for the good of Gotham.

He thought about showing up. Maybe he could even pick up a date, reestablish himself as a playboy. But deep down, he had hated hanging around sluts and party girls just to make himself a widely public cover story. He hated leading them on and dumping them off. It went against the goodness that defined him.

He found himself extremely bored. It was odd how he was perfectly content sitting around his mansion doing nothing but small bits of physical therapy for years, but once an alternative camped out at his doorstep, he was left to boredom. Suddenly, his hands itched for employment, and his legs ached with the need to run again. He turned to his weaponry, grinning at the thought of all the untested equipment he could try. Maybe tonight wouldn't be so awful.

xxxxx

Charlie slipped away from the crowd as quickly as possible, holding the bag of supplies the Joker had given him and sneakily disappearing behind the house. When a maid opened the door, he followed, thankful that she had opened it widely. The maid whirled around, startling the man into stunned stillness.

Her eyes were perceptive and yet playful, which made the man uncomfortable, and her expression was confusing.

She only smirked. "Don't tell me that you aren't here for the service either." With that, she swung her hips teasingly and disappeared down a hallway that Charlie was sure she shouldn't be in.

Although he wasn't the most skilled person for these sorts of secret missions – why the Joker had sent him of all people, Charlie would never know – he knew a thing or two about what helped his job and what hurt it. And he was positive that this woman's nearly definitely illegal presence was good. It would serve for both a distraction and a potential ally if need be. Shared enemies bring people together.

Weaving his way through elegantly styled hallways and rooms, Charlie finally found his destination. He was in the bedroom of Bruce Wayne, who was apparently Batman. The boss seemed pretty positive, so Charlie simply believed him. The knowledge hadn't excited him as much as it did the Joker. The clown had danced around the room singing the same name over and over. No wonder they called him crazy.

Amateur he might be, but Charlie had run through the steps so many times that morning that he doubted he could physically do anything wrong. With slow and careful hands, he reached into the bag and pulled out the dynamite and the wires. The boss had been specific – no tech, just wires and screws. It was symbolic of something, and Charlie really didn't know what.

He planted the bomb quickly, in a chair that sat alone in a corner near the bathroom. His work was done.


End file.
